“You’re the manager!” I reminded Trotter, who seemed to need reminding.
“And you’re the author!”
“You engaged him!”
“At your instigation!”
“Well, you play a leading part, and if you choose to let him spoil you, it’s your affair, not mine.”
“To listen to you anybody would think that it’s a matter of complete indifference to you if he ruins your play!”
All this was of course absurd. But the consequence was that the man retained his part.
As the night approached I worked myself into a state of fever. On the night itself I couldn’t keep away from the theatre. An irresistible fascination drew me Strandwards. I was haunted by a hideous and altogether unreasonable suspicion that, at the last moment, Ruthven would play us a trick and fail to appear. As my cab drew up at the stage-door, I pu
